The recovery of the Mockingjay
by Cathal O'regan
Summary: The Capitol has fallen and Panem are free. But how are Peeta and Katniss recovering? Based after the events of Mockingjay, a deeper revelation to the recovery of the two victors, and what it feels like being back in District 12


_**Note: I just recently finished the Hunger Games series and I had so many feels! Ugh, it was unreal. Also, many people were complaining about how they felt it ended too soon and that they never got a chance to see Katniss and Peeta settle in and recover a bit. So that's exactly what I wrote! This first chapter is just a kind of introduction into bigger events, I just thought I could set the scene a little. Okay, feel free to read and review! Hope you enjoy **_

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The first time I went back to the Meadow properly, and seeing as it was before the capitol, was in spring. A year after arriving home, after arriving back into district 12. I was weak, not physically, I still had burn scars, but it was my mind which prevented me from returning to the place I'd loved so much. Of course Peeta had been with me, and I'd clutched his arm like I would collapse into what would be a waste of months of progress if I let go. Peeta himself hadn't returned, not fully, and I doubted that either of us would be our old selves.

The dandelions had shone like little suns among the grass; I could see them from beyond the fence. For a minute it looked like nothing had changed, like District 12 hadn't been destroyed, like innocent people hadn't been killed all because of me. Because I was the mockingjay. No, _had _been the Mockingjay. It was over, it was. And we were scraping along, trying to make progress together. "Baby steps" as Dr Aurelius said.

The meadow would probably fool those who hadn't been around in the first few months of the districts return. It looked beautiful, untouched and wild with pockets of wild flowers and birds in the trees surrounding it. But I knew better. I knew that this place had been dug up. I'd seen it. I remembered when it was an open mass grave, and how even I'd felt that day in the woods. Too weak to get to the lake, but strong enough to make it too Gale and I's old meeting place. The majority of district 12 was in the meadow, underground, skeletal and grim. Including Peeta's family. I knew this was as hard for him as it was for me.

In Peetas hand he'd held a flower, a primrose which we'd taken from the flowers in my garden, and he'd fiddled with the stalk, twirling it between his fingers. We must have stood there for a while. The good part of an hour just staring into the field where I'd go, the old me, for safety, or for escape. We'd climbed through the hole in the metal wire, not even bothering to listen for the hum of electricity- the fence had been off since the attack, and is never to be turned on again. The damage is severe, it's a wonder people had even managed to hold the structure up, and protect us from the predators.

We stuck to the outside of the meadow, gathering as much confidence or strength to continue on, like we were venturing into some unseen battle.

"I'm sorry, Peeta." I'd said, staring straight into the tree line, not even a hint of emotion crossing my face. He hadn't answered straight away. The birds continued to sing, the mockingjays, the wind blew strange patterns in the young grass and bright flowers, but it didn't seem right.

"My family is here. Real or not real?"

"Real."

After a while, my grip on Peetas arm had slackened, but I'd still kept a hold of him at all times. Hold his hand, feel a reassuring arm around my waist. I wasn't going to lose him then, no-one would take him from me again.

We placed the flower in the centre of the field. Lost among the other flowers, it blended in like it belonged there, like it always had. I could feel the splash of warm tears on my face before I knew I was crying, Peetas arm tugging me in, holding me. I could tell from his jagged breathing that he was crying too.

And so it started. The recovery, as much as was possible. I was starting to come to terms with Prims death, yet I knew I'd never fully get over it. Nobody does.

Still, Peeta continued to paint, if not in our little book, on canvas's which seemed to take up the majority of the upstairs space in his house. It was his way of dealing with the horrors he'd induced while in the Capitol, and no matter how expertly painted they were, I still couldn't look at them. I hated them so much that it was hard even entering his house, knowing that somewhere in those rooms were memories so bad that they gave him constant nightmares, that they nearly tore him apart at one point and continued to threaten him even now. Which is why we spent as much time as we could together.

I continued hunting by myself, however, as Peeta's lack of stealth would scare away any game, and so he would bake or paint or visit Haymitch if he wasn't in some sort of drunken sleep. And sometimes when I would return from a long evening, I would be greeted by the smell of fresh bread, or beautifully decorated cookies, or even those cheese topped buns he knew I loved so much.

It continued like this for a while, neither of us really talking about our problems in depth, or at all, as if we both knew that we had to recover by ourselves at first. It was a long process of self-reestablishment before we even started discussing what was wrong and how to support each other. Mainly I still grieved about the loss of Prim, how despite my attempts to keep her safe, the world succeeded in taking her away. But Peeta was worse.

He still had times where he remembered a memory the Capitol hijacked, and his eyes would widen, and he would take a hold of anything close by that was sturdy. At points like these, I knew to keep a reasonable distance. He'd warned me many times that if he did lose it; he wanted me out of reach. Even to himself he was unsteady. However these little moments were becoming less and less frequent and I'd catch more and more of the old Peeta. And it gave me hope.

The "Real or not Real" questions were also involved with restoring and correcting any memories Peeta had doubts on. Often he just asked them randomly, sometimes just little things, others more important ones, and it struck me just how deep the Capitol went in his mind, just to make him hate me. At first I wondered just exactly which memories of me were compromised, but I figured that when the time came Peeta would tell me.

Maybe.


End file.
